


With Pleasing Expectation

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boss/Employee Relationship, Consent Issues, Established Relationship, Irresponsible Decisions, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Office Sex, Power Dynamics, Romance, Secret Relationship, Sex Toys, Under-negotiated Kink, everyone has a good time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-19 21:49:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17009841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: For three years Alexander Hamilton has been fucking his boss. It wasn't meant to be a relationship, but hey, at least they're on the same (very secret and very kinky) page.





	With Pleasing Expectation

It wasn't meant to be a relationship.

That wasn't what either of them wanted when they first began this thing—this complicated and covert arrangement they share—it wasn't supposed to turn into _more_. Too messy, too much, too difficult to walk away from. Relationships are a lot, and neither George nor Alexander wanted to get into anything that might upend their world.

It _wasn't meant to be a relationship_. But somehow, over the past three years, that's exactly what it's become.

Still complicated. Still secret. If anyone were to discover them, the scandal would rock them both. An office affair is always a dubious proposition; the fact that George is his boss only cements the need for discretion.

Alexander doesn't mind secrecy. _He_ knows George is all his. And there's something thrilling in being the man's dirty little secret.

"Am I boring you, Alexander?"

A brutal thrust jostles him atop the desk, and Alexander cries out, the sound muffled by the weight of George's palm covering his mouth. There are hard edges digging into his back, objects trapped between Alexander's weight and the otherwise smooth surface of George's enormous desk. Pens and highlighters that toppled from their holder before George pinned him, a stack of folders, the metal spiral of an open planner—because even in this era of technology and digital scheduling, George Washington insists on keeping a _physical calendar_ on his desk.

There is a possessive glint in George's eyes, familiar ferocity kindling alongside deeper affection. It's a heady mix that coils pleasure in Alexander's chest.

It used to terrify him when George looked at him like this. Like he belongs here, like he _matters_. Alexander has not always known what to do with affection, even when balanced by mind-melting sex. But he has learned better. George is not a man to waste his time or his warmth, and Alexander? Alexander _knows_ he means a damn to George, even if it isn't what either of them expected.

He gasps at another thrust, at the feel of the slick, huge cock inside him. His own legs are wrapped around wide hips, ankles hooked together at the small of George's back, urging more. Deeper. _Harder_. Pleading without the benefit of words for George to take and take and take, to make him feel this for days.

He clings to George's biceps, both hands holding tight as the man obliges without remorse.

They move together with perfectly matched desperation. After all, this is a dance they've done before. Dozens of times. Hundreds. Of all the partners Alexander ever took to bed, none could satisfy him as thoroughly as George.

It's with difficulty that Alexander opens his eyes. God, he's _so close_ , but he needs to see—loves to watch George like this—loves to glimpse iron control slipping away by shuddering degrees. George is so much bigger than him. Broad shoulders, sturdy chest, soft bulk over powerful muscles. So much strength on constant display, and Alexander adores it—always—but even more so in moments like this, when all that strength is focused on _him_. Holding him down, silencing him, fucking him like there's no tomorrow.

He's grateful for George's heavy palm still covering his mouth. Pleasure careens through him hot and hard, and he couldn't be silent if he tried. The locked door of George's office is heavy enough to contain the sounds of their bodies moving together, the rhythm and occasional scrape of furniture; but Alexander is not a quiet man. Even sturdy wood might not be enough to muffle the high, frantic sobs of pleasure trying to escape him now.

A simpler—safer—solution would be to exercise a modicum of self-restraint.

They should not be doing this now. Early afternoon on a Friday, there are dozens of employees on the other side of that door. All of them seated at cubicles in neat rows, all of them hard at work in the hopes of leaving early to start their weekend. All oblivious to the fact that their CEO is currently fucking his administrative assistant into next week atop the work they are supposed to be doing.

But self-restraint has never been Alexander's modus operandi, and it's a pretense George hasn't maintained since the earliest days of their affair. Three years and they've never been caught, despite an endless stream of ill-considered indiscretions. It's a wonder they still possess even a thread of common sense between them.

A moment later and George goes still inside him, abruptly and completely motionless. Alexander gasps in surprise, but there's nothing he can do to urge the man back into motion; George is too strong, his grip unrelenting, his weight an absolute inferno pinning Alexander in place. His cock is an intimate and overwhelming presence, nestled so deep that—even in perfect stillness—the girth of it leaves Alexander trembling.

He can't get enough air. His whole body is a live wire of hungry need, the promise of satisfaction hovering just out of reach.

There is a teasing glint in George's eye as they stare at each other through several taut seconds. George must be close too—Alexander can feel it in the bruising strength holding him still—but he is also clearly enjoying this. The torment. The control. The cruel agony of making Alexander wait.

"Is something wrong, Alexander?" Audible strain leaks through the lightness of the question.

It's a familiar game. And never mind that Alexander knows how it will play out—never mind his complete confidence that George won't leave him unsatisfied—he is desperate, and he is lost, and he needs George to _move_.

He can't beg like this, silenced by the heavy press of the hand over his mouth. But he meets George's eyes and breathes a sound raw with need, a low keen that aches in his chest and makes him feel naked and vulnerable. Even muted, the sound is painfully honest, and he sees the effect it has on George. The instant spark of answering need in those watchful eyes, the darkening of the hungry flush across his cheeks.

With what little room he has to maneuver, Alexander arches beneath George's weight. He slides his hands higher, wraps his arms around intimidating shoulders.

He breathes a muffled cry of pleasure when George's hips draw back and then snap fiercely forward. Paper crinkles beneath him as his body jolts atop the desk, and he hears the quiet clatter of half a dozen pens rolling to the floor.

Then George's hand—the one grasping his hip—lets go and slips between their bodies. When George's grip circles his aching cock, Alexander is lost. His every nerve surges bright and hot with pleasure, his orgasm spinning through him at the first firm stroke. He clenches tight around George's cock, and even through the wild haze of his own pleasure he hears the low groan, feels the hot gust of breath at his throat as George follows him over the edge.

A different sort of stillness follows in the moments immediately after. George's hands disappear, though the weight pinning Alexander stays, and he sucks in a breath so deep it leaves him lightheaded. He is still clinging to broad shoulders, still trembling in place, still gripping George tightly between his thighs.

George's softening cock is still inside him, an uncomfortable intimacy now that Alexander is sated and over-sensitized. He doesn't protest, though. He relishes the discomfort—thrills quietly at the ache of being thoroughly used. Now, spent and exhausted, he is in no rush to be dismissed. George likewise seems in no hurry to get off of him.

This too used to be too much intimacy for Alexander. A closeness that goes far beyond the sweaty satisfaction of adventurous sex, crossing into realms he's always had difficulty trusting.

It was strange to realize, some while into their arrangement, that he _did_ trust George with more than just his body. Stranger still—and infinitely more terrifying—to concede that he trusts George with his entire heart.

But he did. He _does_. He trusts George completely, no matter how carefully they must conceal their entanglement, and the knowledge no longer terrifies him. Alexander hasn't slept with anyone but George in almost two years, and the truth is he has not wanted to. The idea of exclusivity used to perplex him; it doesn't anymore.

He keeps still on the desk when George finally stirs and pulls out. He bites his own lower lip to keep from protesting when George straightens and takes a step back, the circle of Alexander's legs parting only reluctantly to let him go. At least he doesn't go far, steps away only long enough to dispose of the condom and put his clothing to rights.

George returns a moment later with a soft cloth to clean the mess from Alexander's bare stomach, and Alexander hums a pleased sound. When the cloth disappears, George returns properly, all that strength and heat closing on him once more. Crushing him against the desk as George takes his mouth in a possessive kiss.

Alexander opens for him, welcomes the claiming thrust of tongue past parted lips, shivers when George's fingers slide through the sweat-slick hair at his temples.

When George straightens once more, there's fondness softening the usually stern contours of his face.

"You're a complete mess." George's voice is pitched soft and teasing.

" _I'm_ a complete mess?" Alexander pushes up onto his elbows and surveys the man before him. George's face is still enticingly flushed, his sleeves wrinkled from Alexander's careless grip, and there's a damp spot where he didn't escape Alexander's orgasm unscathed. "Your shirt is ruined."

"I have extras," George retorts. "And unlike you, I don't need to set foot outside this office until everyone else is long gone." Even as he speaks he is gathering scattered articles of clothing from the floor—somehow Alexander always ends up significantly more naked than George when they get carried away at work—setting them on the edge of the desk as Alexander buttons his own rumpled shirt.

"I'll manage." He always does. George has begun to keep extra hair ties for him in this desk, top drawer beside the paper clips, so he'll be able to put his hair back up despite having no idea where his own band fell. As for the rest of the sins evident in his wardrobe, his suit jacket will hide the worst of them. Even the fresh bruises George sucked into his skin should all be low enough to conceal beneath his shirt collar and tie.

George doesn't offer to help as Alexander puts himself to rights. He simply watches, appreciation sparking in his eyes as Alexander dresses, fixes his hair, toes into his shoes last of all.

Alexander grunts in surprise when George grabs him while he's still adjusting the second shoe, but he melts just as easily into this kiss as the one before. George's mouth is confident and demanding, and Alexander loves the feel of it—the implicit command—the utter simplicity of giving in to something so good.

When the kiss breaks, George takes a single step back, hands settling on Alexander's hips. "I have a present for you. One I should definitely _not_ give you in the middle of the workday."

Alexander's heart—slowing a moment ago—kicks faster at the hint of gravel in George's voice.

"Why would you tell me this _now_?" Alexander asks, relieved to sound more breathless than plaintive. He glances at the clock—not quite two-thirty—which means nearly three hours to wait if George truly intends to keep him in suspense, and that's assuming everyone else leaves on time.

George smiles at him and ducks down to murmur directly in his ear, "Because I am considering giving it to you anyway."

Alexander inhales sharply, hope and heat igniting beneath his skin, and he braces both hands against George's chest. Gives a hard shove that forces his tormentor to meet his eyes. He knows damn well George has never found him the least bit intimidating, but he puts on his most ferocious expression anyway. Lets determination glare from his eyes.

"Don't be a fucking tease."

George laughs, and the sound is bright and endearing. "Are you sure you want it now? Trust me, it's not going to do any favors for your concentration. I know how you hate to be unproductive."

And oh, if _that_ isn't a blatant challenge.

Alexander smirks, cocky and bright. "I'll still be productive. Do your worst."

For a long moment George simply peers down at him, creating the nearly convincing illusion that he is debating the merits of the argument. Alexander knows better. George would not have mentioned the gift at all if he truly intended to refuse handing it over. George is only cruel in the ways he knows Alexander enjoys—an understanding honed through their years together and still occasionally revisited in renewed negotiations—and while delayed gratification has its place in their games, this tease of Alexander's fervent curiosity is not such a moment.

At last the show of pensiveness cracks, and George's expression transforms into a wolfish grin. Sharp, eager, all teeth. That look ignites fresh wildfire in Alexander's blood. He's seen it enough times to recognize the flash of threat and promise. And even freshly fucked and exhausted, he is not immune.

He's glad for the sturdy support of the massive desk behind him; leaning against it like this, it's not quite so embarrassingly obvious how easily George can turn him weak at the knees.

Alexander wonders how long he will have to wait—and finds himself startled when George surges abruptly forward. Strong hands close on him, manhandle him around to face the desk, then shove him down hard—bending him forcefully over atop the scattered pens and papers. Alexander grunts as his chest hits the desk, but he makes no move to resist, or to rise when those restraining hands disappear.

"What—" he begins to ask, only to silence himself when George reaches down to open his fly for him, then yank pants and briefs down Alexander's thighs. Baring his ass and putting him on blatant display.

There's a gentler moment, a smooth stroke down his flank and over the curve of his ass.

Then George steps away once more, leaving Alexander bereft and unsteady.

"If you had other plans, you could have told me _before_ I cleaned up," Alexander grumbles, though it's all for show. He is full of too much giddy anticipation to harbor anything like annoyance. He doesn't know what's coming, but he still wants it so badly he can taste it.

"Hmm." George makes a show of ignoring him, and Alexander follows more by sound than by peripheral vision, as George unlocks the bottom drawer of his desk—the drawer in which their work-inappropriate items reside—and fusses with the contents.

When he returns, Alexander turns his head farther without moving from his place on the desk, desperate to see.

In one hand George holds a small bottle of lube. In the other, a dildo of impressive size. It's at least as large as George's fully erect cock, maybe larger. And fuck, it's a thing of _beauty_. Sleek and long, shaped to suggest the contours of a cock without delving too near ridiculous reality. It's flared at the base and, from the way George is holding it, Alexander can tell it isn't a rigid toy. There will be some give when it's inside him—just enough softness to be maddening when he moves—and if George intends to put it inside him now, with the rest of the afternoon still ahead, Alexander will _have_ to move.

Then George crowds behind him and orders, "Eyes forward."

Alexander immediately snaps his gaze straight ahead, drawing a sharp inward breath at the faint click of the cap on the lube.

"Are you sure you want this now?" George is not teasing this time. There is earnest concern in his voice. Familiar caution despite the forcefulness of touch only moments before. No contradiction in the two—just George's constant vigilance toward Alexander's physical limits—his stubborn need to check in when he _knows_ he is asking a lot.

"I want it," Alexander groans.

"We can do this later. You won't disappoint me."

"Not later." Alexander's eyes flutter shut and he shivers with desperate anticipation. " _Now_. God, sir, don't tease me like this. Don't make me wait, _please_."

"Very well." So much fondness echoes in George's voice, and the sound of it sends a fresh shiver along the length of Alexander's spine. "If you change your mind—"

"I know," Alexander moans, cutting him short. "Fuck, I _know_. I swear I'll signal if I can't— Please, sir. God, please give it to me."

His ass already aches deliciously from being so vigorously fucked. He is slick and loose and sore, hyper-sensitive but also ready for this. Eager. Arousal re-igniting as George must certainly have anticipated.

George doesn't bother with his fingers first; there's no point when Alexander is already so used and open. But even so the first blunt nudge at his entrance makes him startle, and he wills his body to relax as the slick toy eases inside. He breathes out, thrilling at the sensation of being spread open and filled. Fuck, it feels even bigger than it looked, and George is pressing it steadily deeper. Careful, but not gentle.

He wonders if George will get him off this way—right here and now—use this beautiful new toy to wring a second orgasm out of him too soon after his first. He can imagine easily enough what it would feel like, the length and girth of it more than he's used to, the way it might feel fucking him in earnest. Again and again, an unrelenting rhythm dragging across his prostate and carrying him straight out of his own head. Too much and so, _so_ good.

But George simply continues forward, fitting the entire length inside him. When the thing is seated as deep as it can go, the flared base flush with Alexander's ass, everything stops. George's hand falls away, leaving the length right where it is. Overwhelming and perfect and utterly maddening in its stillness.

"Christ, you're beautiful like this," George breathes. There's a moment's quiet fumbling, a rustle of fabric, and then the telltale shutter-sound of George taking a picture with his personal phone.

Alexander breathes a helpless sound at the praise, wriggling his ass just to feel the toy shift inside him. He hears George inhale hard, then another click of a photo being taken, and Alexander's face—already warm—flushes even hotter. George is always taking pictures of him, most of them in truly compromising positions, and the fact never fails to rile Alexander to a fever pitch. The knowledge that George will look at those images later—that he will almost certainly jerk off to them—takes his cock from growing interest to diamond hardness so fast the transition is almost painful.

Before he can ask what happens now—though he certainly harbors suspicions—George is closing in on him once more. Steady hands tug his pants back up. Alexander shifts on the desk, but makes no move to help as George tucks his distractingly stiff cock into his briefs and then carefully does up his fly.

If he weren't bent over his boss's desk—if it weren't for the obvious hard-on making itself visible along his inseam—Alexander would look perfectly ready to face an afternoon at the office. Outwardly he is still suited up, hair pulled tight, tie knotted securely.

Inwardly he is a disaster of arousal, body straining around the girth spreading him wide.

George gives his ass a hard swat—it doesn't even sting much through his righted clothing—but it's still enough to make Alexander's body clench tighter, and he bites back a loud moan at the sensation. How he's going to make it through the rest of the afternoon like this, he cannot fathom.

"Back to work." George doesn't offer to help him. "I don't want to see you away from your desk until even Henry clocks out for the night."

Alexander laughs, genuine amusement darting through the strained sound. _Getting_ to his desk is going to be challenge enough without being seen. No way in hell is he going to stand up and go somewhere else before the coast is clear.

He gets his arms beneath him and pushes up from the desk, and even though he's expecting it, he still gasps aloud at the way the toy moves inside him—the hint of friction despite the generous quantity of lube, that could easily turn to discomfort if he were going to be doing anything more strenuous than sitting at a desk—the pressure against his insides, against one spot in particular that sends sparks racing along his nerves and promises to be distracting as fuck.

The base is relatively narrow, but still too wide to be comfortable once he's standing. He takes a moment, palms braced flat atop the desk. George remains out of his line of sight somewhere behind him, but Alexander knows he's following every move with eager eyes.

A glance at the desktop monitor on the other side of George's desk—far enough from their activities that it was never in danger of being knocked to the floor—tells him just how surely the man was planning this even before he summoned Alexander into his office. George has access to all the building's security feeds on this machine, but at the moment only one camera view is enlarged on the screen. The room just outside the office door, with Alexander's desk almost entirely visible in the bottom corner of the frame.

George intends to watch him squirm.

"It goes without saying, of course," George murmurs, and there's the creak of leather as he settles in his chair. His voice has taken on an almost convincing air of careless disdain, and the tone makes Alexander's blood race hot. "But if you get off before I allow it, you won't like the consequences."

Alexander shivers. "I won't let you down, sir."

"Good. Now get the fuck out of my office."

With one last glance at the computer screen to make sure the way is clear, Alexander obeys.

The door feels impossibly loud as he steps through and tugs it shut behind him. Around him rise the low sounds of a dozen employees hard at work. He can't see any of them in their cubicles, and he moves as quickly as he can—not all that quickly as it it turns out—and certainly without any kind of grace.

His desk is the closest to George's office door, and the only one not surrounded by cubicle walls. Only five feet of floor to cover, but he feels exposed and rebellious with every step. Fuck, all it would take is a head popping up above any one of those cubicle walls, and he would face confused questions. _Are you all right? Do you need to go home early?_ Or worse, actual suspicion of the things he and George have spent so long hiding.

It's a relief to settle heavily into his own sturdy chair, effectively hiding behind his desk. Difficult to keep from a gasping moan as he takes his place—sitting down moves the toy inside him in even more interesting ways, nudging forward, putting pressure in whole new places. _Fuck_ , it feels good. It is an absolute agony of distraction.

He looks to the clock above the double doors that lead out into the hall. Then looks directly into the security camera mounted not at all subtly beside it. He controls his expression by pure and stubborn force of will.

Then, letting the bland sounds of the office surround and wash over him, he wakes his computer and returns to work.

Alexander knows better than to work on anything important when he's so badly distracted. He focuses on simple tasks. Spreadsheets he'll have time to review in the morning, write-ups he could do in his sleep, dull busy-work he would normally delegate to one of his many subordinates—being George's admin has perks beyond their physical affair. Nothing vital. Nothing complicated. Nothing that will suffer when he inevitably loses focus and drifts into his own head, drawn away by a jolt of pleasure from the slightest change in position.

By far the most difficult challenge is keeping his breathing steady, resisting the urge to moan and gasp at every tiny movement. He tries to sit perfectly still, but of course he can't. Which means the handful of hours pass in an absolute hell of exerting his failing self-control over every physical instinct.

And through it all his cock is diamond-hard beneath his desk. Desire sings beneath his skin, electric with potential. He can _feel_ George's attention on him, and thrills at the knowledge that the man needs only glance at his computer screen to see how diligently Alexander is working. How well he is behaving, despite the near impossibility of the task.

Even if George is not paying close attention to the camera feed—unlikely but entirely possible—Alexander knows he cannot be far from his boss's mind. He can't be the only one utterly unable to focus.

He also knows that if it becomes too much, he can end this quickly. He only needs to pick up his phone and call George's office. _Your meeting with Harris has been canceled, sir_. Perfectly innocuous amid the dozens of other necessary check-ins that fill the normal course of his day.

He doesn't know exactly what would happen if he made that call. It would fall to George to get everyone else out under some plausible pretense, to extract Alexander safely from the situation and put a stop to their activities. In three years of fooling around at work—two years pulling risky stunts much like this one—Alexander has yet to make that call. He hasn't needed to.

He is not remotely tempted now.

Three hours is not long, but it is also an eternity. All the worse for the fact that Alexander is not alone. More than once he has to field questions from other employees.

— _Yes, I'll make sure he signs them today_.

— _This looks fine, send it to marketing for final approval_.

— _I'm afraid he isn't available right now. You'll have to leave the proposals with me_.

And every time it is a desperate feat keeping his tone even, his posture loose, his expression natural. Behaving as though he is _not_ on the verge of coming in his pants. Even worse since he's sure George is watching him in those moments. No sound carries through the security feed, but that hardly matters; George knows him too well not to see the struggle Alexander is fighting to mask.

Only a couple of people ask if he's feeling all right—questions he is able to divert easily enough. The telephone calls are simpler. Still a challenge—he still needs to keep his voice steady—but at least he doesn't need to make eye contact with a phone call. Doesn't need to worry about the warmth staining his cheeks or the hungry way his eyes have dilated.

As the hour hand inches nearer and nearer to five o'clock, people start packing up their things and departing for the evening. With each departure Alexander thrills a little. Bids them goodnight one by one until only a couple of stragglers remain.

It's after five. _Everyone_ should be gone. But then, George has a tendency to hire workaholics. Alexander shouldn't be angry at them for putting extra effort into their jobs. He is certainly not allowed to yell at them to go the fuck home, no matter how desperate he is for the relief he has earned.

There's nothing he can do to speed them along. Nothing he can do to hasten his own satisfaction, either. Even if he could make his way back to George's office discreetly enough to go unnoticed—a dubious prospect in the heavier quiet of a nearly empty office—George ordered him to stay right here at his desk. To wait. Which means he can only sit where he is. Keep working, however ineffectually, and pretend he is not being split open by the massive length inside him.

It is agony to wait. Hell and heaven in equal measure. He doesn't look up to acknowledge the second-to-last departing employee. Ten minutes later he only raises his head to bid Henry goodnight because the man _says his name_ , and it would be suspiciously rude to ignore him. But the thin smile he wears is forced, and he prays Henry doesn't see his hands shaking as he sets a finished folder aside.

And then finally—fuck, _finally_ —the enormous office is empty. Hamilton is alone. He doesn't mean to shift in his seat, to nudge the toy harder against his prostate, but at least there's no one left to hear him draw a shuddering gasp at the spark of pleasure igniting inside him.

George's door remains firmly shut.

Alexander's first instinct is to stand, no matter how unsteady, and make his way back to George's office. Plead to be fucked. He has been so patient. He has been _good_. He deserves to be rewarded, and George will be expecting him. George will almost certainly oblige.

But.

There's also an itch of pride at the back of Alexander's skull, tucked almost imperceptible behind more frantic urges. A stubbornness that is never swept completely aside, no matter how thoroughly George takes him apart. He knows damn well that George has been watching him squirm.

George knows how desperate he is to be touched. He will expect Alexander to cave immediately now that they're alone.

Alexander resists the urge to look at the security camera as a bright surge of rebellion ignites in his chest. Fuck it, he's waited this long. Let George come to him.

A moment to calm himself, to slow his breathing, and then Alexander sets his hands atop his keyboard and gets back to work.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

George is honestly shocked when the last employee leaves and Alexander doesn't come to him.

He expected…

Well. He expected any number of things. For Alexander to defy lingering instructions and touch himself, too desperate to resist. For the boy to page between their desks and beg for relief. For the silent security footage on the computer screen to show him Alexander rising from his chair and stumbling for George's office, and then a helpless burst through the door, a plea for satisfaction.

Instead, his computer shows him an utterly convincing illusion of normalcy. Alexander's fingers fly across his keyboard, his eyes focused stubbornly on the document in front of him. George cannot fathom what his boy is working on; he can't imagine where Alexander found the willpower to be coy, considering how desperate he must be for satisfaction.

Impressive. George will have to think of some suitable reward later.

But now… Now it is time for something more selfish. Alexander is not disobeying him, but he's making a deliberate show of defiance. This isn't a power play—for all the orders and forcefulness, neither one of them has any delusion about where the power in their relationship lies—and it is not in George's hands. But the demonstration of stubbornness still warrants a response.

Delight warms George's chest with the anticipation of what he is about to do. Alexander clearly thinks he has the upper hand, but he doesn't have all the information. How could he, when there are things George has deliberately not told him?

A moment to savor the pending delight, and then George opens the top drawer of his desk and gathers an innocuous-looking remote. Black plastic, simple, only three buttons with no clarifying markings. Nothing at all to indicate that the device is not an office tool but rather the control mechanism for the thick—battery-operated—enormous object currently tormenting his boy.

With his eyes riveted to the computer screen, George presses the middle button on the remote, immediately triggering the device's second highest setting.

The effect is instantaneous. Alexander jolts in his seat, nearly knocking his computer to the floor, and the startled shriek is loud enough to carry through George's heavy office door. There's a moment where it seems like Alexander might try to stand, but instead he leans forward over his desk. Clinging to the wooden edge, whole body vibrating so hard it's visible even on the grainy image taking up George's computer screen.

If he were not already hard—and oh, he worked his way back to hardness just waiting for this moment—he would be well on his way now.

George contents himself with watching for a time. Savoring this moment of helplessness—making his boy wait—enjoying the glimpse on his monitor even as he watches for any hint of reluctance. Not just their visual signals, but subtler suggestions of distress. He doubts he's misgauged Alexander's limits, but anything is possible; and George is far too protective to allow anyone to hurt his boy.

Even himself.

The only problem with the security footage is that it does not carry sound—and after that first wild noise, Alexander has not been loud enough for his voice to carry into George's office. Even so, the view is a spectacular one. It feels voyeuristic, watching Alexander this way. Watching him try again to stand from the chair—probably intending to come to George's office—only to freeze when George hits another button to set the length inside him vibrating even harder. Alexander's jaw drops on a cry that just barely reaches George's ears, and he bends forward at the waist, landing with his elbows on the desk, his eyes fluttering helplessly shut.

George touches himself idly as he takes in the frantic, panting, gasping show. His hard cock is still completely contained, straining against his inseam. He hasn't touched himself since sending Alexander from his office, but he cups himself now, rubbing a considering hand along his own cloth-covered length.

The longer he draws this out, the more wrecked Alexander will be by the time they are finished. And there is little in the world George Washington enjoys more than demolishing his boy.

At last he stands, black remote in hand, and shuts down both the security feed and his computer. He exits his office and makes a show of ignoring Alexander as he walks past the nearest desk—the desk on top of which Alexander is gasping and shaking apart—in favor of locking the main door to the office suite. The window is frosted and impossible to see through, on top of the fact that Alexander's desk is blocked from sight by multiple cubicles. No one can see them. No one will interrupt their activities.

He returns to Alexander's desk at a leisurely pace, and takes in his boy with an assessing eye.

Alexander is still bent over the surface of the desk. He's caught his lower lip between his teeth in his efforts to keep quiet—a pointless exercise. Alexander does not have that kind of self-control. He is making no end of sinful, delicious noises. Helpless and balanced on a precipice between pleasure and agony. His eyes are clenched shut, his whole body trembling with the vibrations of the toy in his ass, and George can tell just looking at him:

His boy is _fighting_ to keep his orgasm at bay.

George stands directly in front of the desk and sets the remote down with a quiet click. He does not change the settings. He has no interest in making any of this easier.

He honestly can't tell if Alexander has noticed him, so he slips both hands in his pockets and announces sternly, "If you come without permission, you won't come again for two weeks."

Alexander's eyes snap open, and they look genuinely startled to find George standing so close. So he _didn't_ hear his boss emerge from the office. Too far inside his own head. Too lost and distracted and off-balance. Well. Serves him right, calling George's bluff and making him wait.

Alexander stares up from the desk, lust-bleary and gawping.

"Oh god, sir— Please, can I—?"

"No," George interrupts, simple and stern and merciless.

Alexander closes his eyes and clenches his jaw. He chokes back a whimper that sounds _wounded_ , and the sound goes straight to George's dick. George takes in the sight of him—the ruined and shaking and desperate sight of him—and smiles with genuine affection at how hard Alexander is trying to be good. How ferocious his willpower in obeying the command, at least for the moment, despite how helplessly he squirms with the need for release.

George hides the smile in the instant before Alexander's eyes reopen and focus once more. It won't do to let his boy see any hint of gentle fondness when George wants him following orders.

"Get over here," George snaps when he has finished looking his fill. "I want you on your knees."

With excruciating effort—beautiful to behold—Alexander pushes himself upright. It takes him several seconds of stillness to brace himself for the even greater challenge of rounding the desk, and even then he moves unsteadily. One hand on the surface of the desk to steady himself. Legs barely supporting him.

At last he sinks to his knees at George's feet, breathing a fractured groan.

George drinks in the sight of his boy. Alexander is impossibly alluring like this. Still fully clothed—even his tie is perfect for once—Alexander is always more careful about appearances when he is actively misbehaving. But his face is flushed with arousal, and his eyes are hazed. His parted lips look absolutely obscene as he gasps and shudders through the influx of sensation.

"Go on," George murmurs softly. He reaches out to tug Alexander's ponytail loose and twine his fingers in the boy's soft hair. "You know what to do."

Alexander nods, panting softly as he reaches for George's belt. It's thrilling the way his hands visibly shake. He is as wrecked as George has ever seen him—which is a feat, considering all the things he's done to Alexander in the name of pleasure—but the fact remains. Alexander is barely keeping it together as he unbuckles George's belt and opens his fly; as he draws George's cock into his hand.

That shaking hand gives a single stroke along the rigid length, and then Alexander is bobbing obediently forward. Parting his lips around the leaking head, licking at the salty moisture before taking George farther in. A pause, a deliberate inhale, and then Alexander swallows him down. Draws him deep, all the way into Alexander's practiced throat.

Alexander eases back, ducks to take him in again. A rhythmic movement, less artful than usual given the other relentless drain on the boy's attention.

A more patient man would allow him to work. The wet suction is perfect around George's cock, even if this is a sloppier effort than Alexander's usual blow jobs. The pleasure is building steadily inside him, and it would be easy to simply stand still and let this happen. He's done it before—made Alexander do all the work—made his boy pleasure him while George sits back and closes his eyes, riding out the gradual crest of sensation.

But patience is no longer a thing George possesses tonight. He has waited all afternoon and into the evening. He has waited while Alexander enacted his farce of busywork, forcing George to come to him. He has _waited_ , and he is through waiting now. He grabs Alexander's head between his hands, not bothering to mitigate his strength, and takes forceful command of his boy's willing mouth.

He is not gentle. He fucks Alexander's mouth and throat with deep, ruthless thrusts. He doesn't gentle even when trembling hands press flat to his thighs, desperate for balance but blessedly making no effort to slow him down. He is rough— _brutal_ —claiming Alexander with selfish strength.

Under normal circumstances, Alexander's gag-reflex is practically nonexistent—at least that's how it seems to George, so accustomed to his boy's ability to suppress and swallow and accommodate his sizable cock. Even distracted by the noisily vibrating toy deep inside him, Alexander's instincts are there. Which means it takes a great deal of effort to make his boy choke. Not just repeatedly impaling that willing throat, but keeping his boy guessing. Changing the rhythm just as Alexander grows acclimated. Outlasting him, until the muscles of Alexander's mouth and throat are too exhausted to behave.

George maintains his vicious, unpredictable rhythm until Alexander is gagging and jerking beneath his hands with every single thrust. He cherishes the wet, tortured sounds permeating the quiet office. Perfect accompaniment to the high-frequency buzz of the toy still vibrating away.

The victory of it all undoes him. George groans as his orgasm crests, too suddenly to keep it at bay even for the sake of prolonging the absolute heaven of this moment.

He draws his hips back just far enough to spend across Alexander's tongue rather than down his throat. Leaves his cock there, heavy on his boy's lips, until Alexander's mouth is uncomfortably full. George has always been a big spender—so to speak—and Alexander's cheeks puff a little as he holds the slick release. Not allowed to swallow. Not yet.

George slides his cock out slowly, allowing Alexander's lips time to close. To keep the load of come on his tongue where it belongs. Waiting silently for permission, exactly the way George has trained him.

The seconds tick by uncomfortably as George continues to make him wait. Knowing the mouthful of come must be uncomfortable. Knowing even more surely that the vibrations against his prostate are even worse. His boy is in an agony of restless need, and George is just sadistic enough to see how long he can make him behave.

Almost a full minutes passes before Alexander shifts, spreading his knees wider in a restless and unconscious effort to relieve some of the pressure inside him. He is still staring hard at George's face. Waiting for permission.

At last George nods, and Alexander's eyes close in relief as he swallows. Alexander always swallows—never spits—he is not foolish enough to refuse a gift.

Looking at his boy now, George knows Alexander is almost too close. The high-speed vibrations inside him will push him over the edge soon whether George allows it or not, and then instead of rewarding Alexander later he will have to think of some punishment. Cruel, when _this_ is punishment enough. Besides, George is not really in the mood to spend two weeks battling Alexander's libido in order to follow through on his earlier threat.

He reaches down and hoists Alexander to his feet—guides him haltingly back around the desk.

Alexander's chair is nearly as sturdy as the one in George's office—George picked both out himself—and George settles into it easily. Drags Alexander down astride his lap. The boy wears no belt, so George simply opens his fly and slips his hand beneath dark fabric. The touch of bare skin—his fingers drawing Alexander's cock into the open air—earns him a shattered sob as Alexander collapses against his chest, clinging to his shoulders. A deliberate stroke and Alexander whimpers, and the sound is almost enough to make George's own spent cock stir for a third time.

God, the sounds his boy makes. George will never tire of them. He will never tire of _this_ ; of the warm weight in his lap, the panting of hot breath against his throat, the desperate arms wrapped tightly around him. The knowledge that Alexander is his to use and torment as he pleases.

With his free hand, George reaches back to slide his fingers inside Alexander's pants and touch the base of the artificial cock still torturing his boy. He traces the diameter where it presses into soft flesh—wriggles his finger beneath the flared edge, between silicon and skin, to touch the twitching, straining rim of Alexander's ass where it stretches around the difficult girth. He grips the base more firmly a moment later and applies pressure, shifting the length inside Alexander even though it cannot possibly penetrate farther.

Alexander hisses in answer, whole body tensing as he struggles not to come.

George is honestly amazed he is still holding back. It's more self-restraint than Alexander usually demonstrates, and under far more difficult circumstances. George gives a harder stroke along his boy's cock, pressing a kiss to Alexander's temple.

"Go ahead, my boy." He murmurs the words like a benediction, lips brushing Alexander's ear. "You can come. Come for me."

Alexander breathes a cry of pure, shattered pleasure when he spills across George's fingers. He makes a mess of both their shirts, and George could not conceivably care less. He glories in the noisy satisfaction as he continues to stroke his boy, savoring the hitching sobs Alexander tries to muffle against George's chest. He keeps up a light touch as aftershocks leave Alexander trembling and over-sensitized.

He finally lets go of the softening length and eases his boy back in his arms. Alexander's eyes are wide and bright, wild with overstimulation bordering on pain. Impressive that even now he manages to remain quiet. Perhaps he's coherent enough to realize that if he begs George to turn off the device still vibrating inside him—short of using the safe word George has only ever heard twice—the agony will only continue.

For all the disoriented exhaustion in Alexander's eyes, he maintains his silent pleading. It's a heated staring contest between them. George wordlessly daring Alexander to beg for a ceasefire; Alexander breathing hard, shuddering in his arms, waiting for George to end this.

When George finally picks up the remote and deactivates the toy, the stillness is sudden and complete.

Alexander collapses against his chest with an enervated, "Thank you, sir."

George strokes his hand along Alexander's spine, rubbing circles into the small of his back. "You're welcome, my beautiful boy."

It takes only a moment for Alexander to collect himself, and then they're moving clumsily together. Alexander's mouth finds his in a grateful kiss. George parts his lips, slides his tongue alongside Alexander's. Languid and easy and utterly satisfied. Neither of them in any rush. There is no hurry to leave this office.

"Are you busy tonight?" George asks when the kiss finally ends. He threads his fingers through messy hair, enjoying the feel of soft strands and the occasional tangle.

Alexander gives him an apologetic smile. "Dinner plans with Gil and Hercules. But I can come over later. If you want me." The smile stretches wider, a shared joke between them. George _always_ wants him.

"Yes," George answers. "I suppose you'd prefer _not_ to travel across town with your ass full of cock?" He says it with a teasing air of disapproval, enough lightness in his tone to demonstrate that he's joking.

Alexander snorts. "Maybe next time, old man."

George can't resist. He kisses his boy again. Slow and long and deep.

**Author's Note:**

> I also hang out **[over on Dreamwidth](https://dreamlittleyo.dreamwidth.org/)** , if you'd like to find me there.


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